Of the Strong Man and the Grease Monkey
by Paradoxically
Summary: A collection of Rosalie and Emmett one shots: Fluff haters beware.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Rosalie, Emmett, the house, the car...everything is the brainchild of Stephenie Meyer. My additions? Irises under the living room window and the words in the characters' mouths. And, yeah, that's pretty much it.

A/N: I haven't updated "Dusk" in about two weeks. I'm sure some of you are not willing to forgive me at this point, but, well, I work with what I can. And no, I wasn't working on this instead of Dusk. It was 3/4 done already, and I just finished it up so I had something to update for a change. It's not been a fun recent couple of weeks. Sorry. So, anyways, this is a cutesy little snippet from Emmett and Rosalie, in the pre-Bella days. Very short, and thanks very much to those who let me throw out some ideas at them-- that's where the ending was born!

* * *

Of the Strong Man and the Grease Monkey

The house was quiet to an unusual degree. For once, I couldn't hear the quiet murmurings of conversation that usually filled the residence I thought of as my home. Even the sound of Edward's piano had faded into oblivion. And yet, I knew she was here _somewhere. _She hadn't made any mention of a hunting excursion with the others, and I was sure that she would have told me if one was planned. After all, I was her husband. Many, many times over. When it came to Rosalie and weddings, I had learned to submit to her will and to try to have as much fun in the experience as possible. Even if it did mean that I would have to pay for it later.

My soft tread carried me down the stairs and into the yard in less than an instant. She wasn't there either. One place left then: the garage.

My ears picked up her soft humming before I ever turned the doorknob; it brought a slight smile to my face. Sure enough, as soon as I opened the door, I could see the soft blonde tendrils of her hair spilling out from underneath the carriage of a car. Her scent invaded my nostrils, a pungent floral mix that reminded me of the irises that Esme planted under the living room window, but it was tainted slightly by the smell of oil and antifreeze. I padded into the room: she didn't even twitch. She was so wrapped up in tinkering with her car that she didn't even notice my presence.

I crossed the short space between the car and myself, sinking down onto the floor to see the blonde beauty that I had bound myself to, till the death that would never come. Her face was serene, marked as it was by small dark smears of oil. Her hands were buried in the innards of the car, her own glossy black BMW M3. For now, she was contenting herself with merely changing the oil, but from the contemplative look in her eye and the murmuring about "Red paint? Perhaps blue?" and I could guess that she had something a little more drastic than routine maintenance in mind for the near future. I watched as her hands, graceful and sure, spun a new oil filter into its place.

I waited impatiently for her to finish, then grabbed the sliding mechanic's bench that she was laying on and slid her out from underneath vehicle rather abruptly. Before she could do more than let a slight frown mar her features, I had pressed my face to hers, kissing her soundly. Her hands laced themselves in my hair, pulling me closer.

And then pushing me away, her face curling into an ugly snarl, a throaty, threatening growl pulling itself out from her dead lungs.

I laughed mischievously.

"You are absolutely disgusting, do you know that?" she growled, running her tongue over her teeth and make a soft gagging noise in the back of her throat as she picked a few thick brown hairs from her mouth with her delicate fingers: grizzly fur. I had, after all, _just _come back from a hunt.

"And you planned this," she accused, glaring now. I smiled again, not denying it, and placed my large hands around her face. Her eyes, a perfect honey brown, stared back into mine, mock fierce, but I could see the soft, loving edge there.

I pulled her face to mine again, pausing just before our lips met, so close that I couldn't focus on her features.

"Love me anyways?"

Her mouth met mine with a ferocity I hadn't expected, and I knew I had my answer there.


	2. Those Eyes

Short, but at least it's something, right? I know, I know, I've been slacking. The major impetus behind this one is a frustration with SM and her lack of supporting character usage. All kinds of great angst in the extended Cullen family and she didn't really tap it. Ok, ok, maybe it's got something to do with the fact that I flat out adore Jasper/Alice and think there all sorts of things to be done with Emmett/Rosalie...

* * *

There are girls, and then there are girls

There are girls, and then there are _girls._

Don't ever ask me how I found a _girly-girl_ to fall in love with. Or rather, how she found me. I swear I'll never understand it, and I'm not sure that I want to. It's easier sometimes not to, to tell the truth.

Like when she's got that look in her eyes, the one that says she's still hurting from the past. Hurting herself because she can't, won't, let what happened to her go. Her need for revenge didn't die with those men. No, they might as well be ghosts, endlessly reminding of what they took from her, and she sees their theft as their victory and her eternal loss. Every missed opportunity stares back at her every time she looks in that mirror. Doesn't really matter how many times I tell her so, but she hasn't learned yet that you don't step in the same river twice. You can't chase down the water that's already slipped away. But still, there's that look in those eyes…

Maybe Edward is the one that can read her mind, but I'm the one that can read those eyes. They've never seen her fall apart, heard the anguished whispers that I have. They don't know when all she needs is to have her hand gripped in mine, or just to know that I'm standing behind her, her shadow or her protector, whatever she needs me to be. I've learned--and they've been hard lessons--what a fallen angel needs.


	3. Rose

Have I ever told you that it is incredibly annoying to have to re-find files when you move to a new laptop? Not that I don't love my new laptop--it's amazing--but sheesh, as if I needed another reason not to write...

So I decided to stop being lazy and get at least something out here. Sorry I've been a crappy author and not even responding to reviews like I normally do... I still love all ya'll :)

* * *

Emmett.

I never even have to say his name. He already knows when I'm thinking it, a quiet call that never goes unanswered.

I know what they think, when they think of me. Stubborn to a fault. Foolish. Petty. Vain. Superficial. Jealous. Temperamental, mercurial even. Shallow. That I give no more thought to the world than does the rose.

But Emmett—If I am a rose, then Emmett is the sun towards which I incline, the water in my veins, the grounding earth in which I sink my roots. He doesn't care about the thorns, the leaf-mould, the blemishes that _will_ be found. It's not that he doesn't choose to see them—no, for he sees them more perfectly than anyone else.

And he loves me anyways.

So why should I give more thought to the world than does the rose? For Emmett is my world, and I will always be his Rose.


End file.
